Crime at the engagement party
by capricorn5
Summary: Sherlock has returned and has a sister, Dylan. Both of them and John are back to solving cases. After Mycroft invites them to his daughter's engagement party, a strange crime occurs. It's time for the team to go back to work. An original plot set after "Silent death", posted here as well. I very much appreciate reviews and critics. Thank you for reading.
1. Chapter 1

The number 221B in Baker Street had had a few dull days. After a strange case that was solved by Sherlock Holmes with the help of the loyal Dr. John Watson and Sherlock's sister, Dylan Holmes, peace was back to the flat in London. Or at least that's what it seemed to the passers on the street. Inside, there was a small revolution. Sherlock was lying on the couch while Dylan and John were trying to rearrange the furniture in order to provide the space a little more room.

"No, not like this. It will cover the view from the window." Dylan said, and John helped her drag the shelf to the other corner. Piles of books were lying on the floor, unorganized and abandoned for the moment.

"You know what?" John said, sitting on his chair, which was facing a completely different place than it was before. "I don't think this is a good idea. It just doesn't feel right."

Sherlock got up, his robe on over the shirt. He messed up his own air. Dylan looked at him and leaned against the couch, tired. This had been all Sherlock's idea. He had said the apartment was troubling him for some reason and he couldn't think. Then he had decided that they needed to rearrange the furniture. That or they would have to put up with his bad mood forever. Dylan and John didn't think there was an option.

"Aren't you going to help? It was your idea after all." Dylan asked, sitting down.

That whole scenario seemed unnecessary, but she was also so bored that she agreed with him. Now, it just seemed stupid.

"Put it all back in place." Sherlock said, pointing at the things.

"Is this a joke?" John asked, getting up.

"No. I just thought better." He picked up a book that was on top of a table and went to his own bedroom leaving John and Dylan looking at each other.

"Now, really, can you understand him?" John asked. "Says he is having trouble thinking because the house is too crowded and now this. And, for someone who was bored, he didn't do much to help."

"That bastard." She said, after seeing him leaving the room and close the door behind him.

"What?" John asked.

"Did you see him pick the book? He has been looking for that book everywhere for a week and couldn't find it."

John kept looking at her, trying to understand her point. She explained.

"He wanted us to search the bloody book for him, so he set up this whole… thing! And we had all the trouble to take the books out of the shelf, the ones who were behind it, and we found the book for him. I swear I'll kill him someday."

John shrugged his shoulders. That seemed so like Sherlock.

"Okay, let's put things back in place." That was all they could do.

They dragged the shelf back to its original place and then started to put the books back in place. Sherlock came out of the room, reading the book.

"So," Dylan said, looking at him. "you didn't ask us to rearrange the furniture so that we could find that book for you, did you?"

"Hum?" asked Sherlock, pretending not to understand. "Oh, this book? Yeah, I couldn't find it. And I wouldn't, it was behind the shelf anyway. Not its usual place."

John and Dylan took their hands to their heads. He didn't even try to deny it. Then they looked at each other and shrugged again, shaking their heads. There was no use with that one.

"So, any new cases?" asked John, when they finished putting the books in place.

Dylan came back from the kitchen with cups of tea for everyone. She passed one to John who thanked her and one to Sherlock, who was too immersed on his reading.

"No." Sherlock answered, still submersed in the book. It was a book about spells and curses.

"Interesting reading?" asked John, pointing at it.

"Quite right." That was all Sherlock answered.

There was a knock on the door downstairs.

"Mycroft." Both Sherlock and Dylan affirmed. Sherlock put the book down and got up, picking his cup of tea up and sipping a bit.

"How do you know it's Mycroft?" John asked.

"He always knocks the same way." Dylan answered, sitting on a chair.

And as it is, a few seconds later Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs calling for Sherlock, with Mycroft on her heels.

"Sherlock," she said, entering the room and knocking on the open door slightly. "your brother is here to see you."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." He said.

Mycroft entered the room and took a good look at the three of them. Sherlock standing next to the couch, drinking tea. John sitting on a chair with the newspaper on his lap, drinking tea. And Dylan sat on the other chair, looking right back at him, warming her hands on a mug he would guess was filled with tea.

"I see you've been taking good care of him." Mycroft said, turning to Dylan. "You could have stayed at my place, you know? There are plenty of rooms there."

Dylan got up and answered.

"I have my own apartment, so I am not staying with Sherlock, Mycroft, not really. Don't be jealous. I do appreciate your offer, though. I might had fun with your son. He's a sweet and clever child. But I don't think I would be okay living with your wife and daughter." She looked at Mycroft again and added. "Speaking of which… Seriously, already? They have been dating for what, three whole months?" Dylan asked, pointing at the small envelope on Mycroft's hands.

He looked at the envelope and smiled, but not entirely.

"Four, actually." He answered. "At least she commits, which is something I can't really say about you, isn't it, my dear sister?"

John observed as the scene developed in front of his eyes, not really understanding what was going on. Both Dylan and Sherlock looked at Mycroft with hard, cold stares. Dylan got herself together and answered.

"Don't call me dear sister right after punching me in the face with words, Mycroft. And what you said was not nice."

Mycroft seemed a bit ashamed. She was his younger sister and unlike Sherlock, words had an impact on her. He sometimes forgot that.

"I apologise. I did not intend to be unpleasant to you."

"It's okay." Dylan said. She got out of the living room and came back, passing him a cup of tea as well. Mycroft smiled and thanked.

Sherlock spoke.

"So, you come to invite us for her wedding?"

Mycroft passed him the envelope he was holding and Sherlock examined it.

"There's no clue hidden in that simple invitation, brother. And for now, that one is just for the engagement party."

"It's a very good quality envelope, expensive ink. Whoever ordered this is wealthy and has a certain position to maintain towards the community. I assume it was not your daughter who chose it, as this is too formal and God knows how she loves pink and glittery. So, the groom's choice. A powerful man, I assume."

"He's the son of a Mycroft's co-worker." Dylan said, before Mycroft could answer. "Like his father, he has a position in the government. A minor one, though. He is not yet as important as Mycroft, but I am sure he will get there eventually. Camille is taking care of her future very well, Mycroft is assuring it." She left the living room and went down the stairs to her apartment.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock, without denying what Dylan had just said.

"If you paid attention, Sherlock, you wouldn't be asking those unnecessary questions. I have told you before who Camille was dating. I believe you met his father at that little encounter in Buckingham Palace. You might remember it. You were wearing solely a sheet."

A look of understanding crossed John's face. Yes, he remembered that day. And the men who had spoken to them. One was Mycroft. The other an employee of the Queen. So, Mycroft's daughter was going to marry. And with a man who might not yet be important but would be, in time. That sounded like Mycroft.

"Ah, yes. I do recall it." Said Sherlock, no embarrassment in his affirmation.

"Well," Mycroft continued. "I would like to invite the three of you to the engagement party, two days from now at our country house. It's not going to be a very big thing but I will have some important people there. You know how you should dress. You have all the other information on the invitation."

He paused for a while. Dylan came in the flat again.

"Here." she said, giving him a card. It was from her university but it had her phone number on it. "Give this to Camille. If she ever needs to talk to someone or if she needs any help to prepare the wedding or… I don't know, she can call me anyway."

"Camille may be young – hardly twenty – but she knows what she's doing and what she wants for her future. She has an old soul. She's got it all figured out." Said Mycroft.

"Or maybe she thinks she does and in the end she may realise that someone else has been figuring things out for her." That's all Dylan added.

Mycroft did not answer. His sister seemed a bit moody, which was normal considering the matter that had brought him there. It always made her go back to what had happened. And it was hard for her to believe that someone may want to settle down at the age of twenty. He had settled down early and he was happy with the family he had created. They might not be the most affectionate of all families, but they were certainly convenient, and they did work well as a team. What bothered Dylan the most was the fact that her and Camille used to be so close when younger. His daughter was born when Dylan was six and it was her who taught Camille to read and write, to see things through another perspective. But then Dylan left to the United States and his daughter had become someone else. Had developed her own personality. When Dylan came back to visit four years ago and had seen what Camille had become, the awkwardness around her, as if Dylan was not worthy to be among her friends because she did not like glamour and showing off, she had created a wall. She hardly asked about his daughter anymore. Once she had said to Mycroft that Camille had become a non-thinking Barbie, all about looks and surface-based first impressions. She was clever, Dylan admitted, but she lost what she was to become what everyone expected of her. "She will be miserable." And it was his fault as well, she used to add. Sometimes Mycroft wondered, when he saw her daughter going out with her friends, if Dylan was not right. Still, despite everything, Camille had met someone she liked – "Or does she? Or did someone tell her it was just convenient?" Asked Dylan when he had told her. – and she was going to make a good wedding with a good man. Mycroft new what Dylan meant with her words. He had tried himself to set Dylan's path, with no result. She was a force of nature and had a too straight forward mind to let someone think for herself. He did not think her choices were the best, but he couldn't help but respect her. She had made her own path. And a brilliant one, he had to admit. And she didn't even need to close herself to others. She had friends, people who really liked her, with no other reason apart from Dylan being Dylan. That was an achievement neither Mycroft nor Sherlock would ever know. People got close to them because they wanted something. Mycroft looked at John. Well, maybe he himself was the only one who hadn't achieved that yet. Unless you counted his wife, he didn't know anyone who enjoyed being with him just for the sake of his company. Well, there are sacrifices that have to be made in life. That was his sacrifice.

He picked the card from her hand and put it in his pocket.

"Thank you." He said. "But you shouldn't worry about Camille. She will be fine. She's very excited with everything and has it all under control."

Dylan nodded.

"Are you coming as well?" Mycroft asked, this time to Sherlock. "It's an important day to Camille and she would like to have you all there."

"I will think about it." Sherlock said.

"We're going." Dylan assured. "Both for the engagement party and the wedding. Tell that to Camille."

Sherlock did not contradict her, noticed John. Mycroft put the cup of tea on top of a cabinet and smiled. He looked Dylan in the eye.

"Thank you." Then he looked at Sherlock and John and nodded. "Have a rest of a good day."

He grabbed his umbrella that was leaning against the door but before he could leave the apartment John got up and called him.

"Mycroft?"

He turned around.

"Is… Is Anthea going to be there as well?"

Sherlock, who was back at his books smirked, Dylan looked at him.

"Yes, she is." Mycroft answered. "You might want to change your choice in jumpers, though, Dr. Watson."

He then turned around and left the building.

"Who's Anthea?" Dylan asked, smiling.

"Mycroft's secretary." Sherlock answered, still smirking.

John sat down at a chair, Dylan looking at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Oh, you got a crush on her!"

"I… well, she's pretty. She was not interested the last time I asked her out, but I have been in a few cases, showed up in some newspapers and became a small celebrity since then so, who knows?"

The three of them looked at each other and even Sherlock laughed. Then he pointed out.

"You better go shopping for jumpers then."

"Yeah, Mycroft said that. What's wrong with this one?" he looked at himself, frowning.

"It's ridiculous." Stated Sherlock.

Dylan put her eyes on a book, pretending to be interested in the story. John's jumpers was a debate she really didn't want to be a part of.


	2. Chapter 2

Dylan came home early from her morning class the next day. It had been a funny class, the students were asked to participate and they did not disappoint her. She went to her apartment to put the books down and then walked up the stairs eating a piece of chocolate. She definitely had to leave this addiction behind, but it was not going to be today. Before she entered the room she heard the violin being played. She stopped for a while on the corridor, listening to the song he was playing. She did not recognise it. He stopped a bit and then continued. Yes, she heard the sound of a pencil running through paper, he was composing. And what a nice melody.

"You can come in." Sherlock said, not bothering to look behind. "I promise I won't stop playing."

Dylan entered the room and sat at the couch.

"I like that song." She said. "It's not as sad as usual. What is troubling you?"

"Nothing. I just appreciate thinking and it helps."

He turned around, putting the violin down. She asked.

"Do you want some chocolate? I have a whole bar and I don't want to finish it alone."

Sherlock smiled. If she did have an addiction, that was it. Better than any of his, that was sure. She looked at the nicotine patches on his arm and passed him a piece of chocolate.

He sat down next to her and took the chocolate and they ate in silence for a while.

"Did John go to work?" she asked.

"Yeah, he left early in the morning. He said he was going to be a busy morning so he started earlier, but he is free in the afternoon." Sherlock answered.

"He's a nice guy, John, isn't he? I mean, to put up with you and all…"

Sherlock poked her on the ribs with his elbow but smirked.

"Yeah, he does. And he actually gets surprised with my deductive capacity. You know how everyone else reacts when I start doing those things."

"They tell you to piss off." Dylan said, smiling.

"Exactly."

"Is it true that Mycroft tried to pay him in exchange of information?"

"Yes. He was trying to see if John was a trustful person, of course. He has his own ways to keep me under his eye."

"Always pretending he doesn't worry, but always worried. I wonder what it is like in his head."

"Yes, Mycroft always thought he knew what was best for us. Like he had to protect us. He forgot that people grow up and not necessarily follow his whims."

"I wish we were all easier to handle. Especially among each other."

"You'll be just fine with him. You can adapt."

"I am not so selfish to worry just about myself, Sherlock. The relationship between the three of us has never been easy, though it's a lot harder between you two, and that doesn't make much sense. We are clever, we should know how to deal and get over this kind of things."

"We are too proud to do it." Settled Sherlock.

"We are, aren't we? Mycroft does not accept our decisions; we do not accept his guidance." She finished her chocolate and added with a fake gloom on her tone. "We are doomed forever."

They smiled at each other and Sherlock held her with one arm.

"Now, you big liar, you said you wouldn't stop playing." Complained Dylan.

He got up and picked the violin up, and started to play. Dylan leaned back on the couch, her back turned to him and began to read a book while listening.

John got in the apartment an hour later and this was the picture he saw when he walked in.

"Oh, hello!" he said.

Dylan raised the eyes from the book and smiled.

"Hi!" and asked, putting the book down. "How did work go?"

"Fine." John took his coat off and Sherlock stopped playing, taking notes on the music sheet. "It was a busy morning, lots of colds, but it went okay. It's good to be back. To feel needed."

"So, many old people telling you their problems?"

"Yes." John admitted. And laughed. "And not only old people. They're not sick, they just need company sometimes."

"And that's why you've got a date tonight." Dylan said, looking at John more attentively. Sherlock turned around and looked at him as well, waiting for his confirmation.

"Hum, yeah, I have. How do you know?" John asked.

Sherlock moved around and went to his computer.

"You come home quite later than normal; you obviously stood there after consulting. You have a small handkerchief falling from your pocket that is slightly too feminine to be yours, which means someone forgot it there. Quite a simple thing, people forget things everywhere, but there is a number written on it with black pen, so I suppose the woman who wrote it there did not write it just in case she lost the handkerchief, she did want to lose it. She knew you would be the one to find it since she left it at your consulting room and, since it had the number and you are a gentleman, or maybe because she noticed your interest during consultation, you would call her. Obviously she hasn't picked the handkerchief up yet, even though you could go and meet her to give it back after work. But no, you are going to give it to her tonight. You understood her intentions, she got what she wanted." Sherlock sat down and opened his computer, inserting the password and login in on his blog, 'The science of deduction'.

"Very well." Admitted John. "That's true. I do have a date tonight. Any problem with that?"

"Not at all." Sherlock said. "But I may need your help."

"No, no, no, no!" John said, turning to Sherlock, who ignored him, continuing to write on his blog. "Don't even think about it! You have ruined half my dates in the last years, that's just not going to happen this time, okay?"

"If I have been ruining your dates all this time, what makes you think I will not ruin this one as well?" Sherlock asked. "Actually, I don't think I ruined them, I just made a boring night an adventure. And I saved you the trouble of finding an excuse to break up."

"Well, that's your interpretation of things and this time I will not let you ruin it. You may as well be being strangled by The Golem again, I will not leave my date, you understand? So, if you want to get adventurous, do it on your own, I will not help tonight."

"Not even if he is falling from a rooftop?" Dylan asked, looking at John with a smirk on her face. John's look hardened a bit. "Oh, too soon?" She asked.

"Bit too soon, yeah." John said, and sat down.

"Sorry." She apologised, half-heartedly.

"What about you?" Sherlock asked, pointing at Dylan without stopping what he was doing.

"Oh, I can't today. I also have a date."

Sherlock moved his eyes from the computer and looked behind for the first time.

"With whom?"

"Someone from the University, why?"

"Curiosity."

"So, I guess you will have to work alone today." She pointed out. " What are you writing there?"

"Body's reactions to certain kinds of poisons. I've been doing some research. Rare poisons, almost unable to be found in the body."

"Are you sure it's safe to put that in your blog? People read it you know, it may give them ideas. That's not as harmless as 243 cigarette ashes."

"It's for science, Dylan."

"I guess that excuses almost everything, in his opinion." Said John. He and Dylan laughed, shaking his heads.

"After the last case I thought people should be warned of the dangers they may run." Pointed out Sherlock.

"Okay professor Moody Mad-Eye, if you think it's okay to have that information around…" Dylan got up and messed up his hair. Sherlock got away from her with a movement of his head but smiled.

John was living with Sherlock for quite a while now and almost every day was still a surprise. The rhythm was not yet the same they used to have. Not so many cases. He did not believe London was safer, but the return of Sherlock Holmes was still quite new, and soon the thrill and adventure would start. He hoped so, at least. Sometimes Sherlock was impossible to be around. Even though he had been away, he had not changed. He was the same old Sherlock. In a way John was thankful for it. To have Dylan around made things easier.

"Okay, I should go. I have to meet Molly. I promised her I would help her buy a new dress and I hate being late." Dylan said, putting her coat on. "You girls behave." And before any of them could say anything she dashed out of the apartment, her feet running down the stairs.

"Your sister is almost as crazy as you." John said, smiling. Sherlock looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"You have no idea." He said and smirked. He closed the computer and picked a book, looking through the pages.

"What happened to her?"

"What do you mean?"

"Yesterday, when Mycroft came here. They had sort of a fight. Mycroft said something about compromise and she got angry."

"Oh, that." Sherlock said, yawning. "Someone proposed to her. She said no and ran away to America. Of course she never really admitted she was running away, but we all know she was."

"Sorry, I don't…"

"She met this guy when she was 15. She was young but one of the cleverest people I know, as she has always been. He was quite older than her, still they kept a relationship. They were mad about each other. Quite clingy." He made a disgusted face. "When she turned 18 he asked her to marry him. She said no, broke up with him and decided to move to America, using studies as an excuse. I've talked to her in the years she was away, as you know we've been writing letters to each other. Every time she is in a relationship and it becomes more serious, she just ends it. She says she has a problem. Maybe she does. Then again, don't we all?" Sherlock said, looking at the floor.

"You worry about her." John said, not a question, but an affirmation.

"Of course I worry about her. She's my sister."

And he got up, took the book with him and went to his room. John stood there alone a while longer. By having Dylan by their side he was starting to know a part of Sherlock he hasn't known yet. He was more than just a sociopath and concealing his feelings with her around was not so easy. John went to the kitchen and opened the fridge to drink some water and realised that maybe it was better to get some groceries. Dylan had been doing it the whole time since she moved to 221C and she deserved a break. He looked through the cabinets and a little after left the flat, a grocery list in hand.

0

When John came back to the apartment Dylan was on the phone and making dinner. Sherlock was lying on the couch, looking at the ceiling. He was going to freak out soon if no cases showed up. He had been quite quiet lately, which might also be a bad sign. Dylan laughed and said her goodbyes to whoever she was talking to.

"Hi." Sid John, starting to remove the groceries from the bags and putting them into place. "Why are you cooking? We both have a date."

"I am making some lasanha for Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. He needs to eat." She said, pointing at Sherlock. "And since I was going to cook anyway, might as well cook for Mrs. Hudson too. She was all happy…"

She smiled and John smiled back, finishing putting the groceries away.

"How about Sarah?" Dylan asked, putting the lasanha in the oven and cleaning her hands.

"She's fine."

"No, I mean, did you ever talk to her about… going out again?"

"Yes, I did actually. But she didn't really appreciate that our first date ended up with her almost being killed." John joked, laughing. "Plus, she has a boyfriend now, so I guess that's it for us."

"I am sorry." Dylan said. She set the timer and washed her hands finally, pulling her sleeves down.

"No, it's okay. It's better off this way, we work together and all, so… yeah, it's fine."

"Okay. Well, I am going to get ready to leave." And turning to Sherlock. "I set the timer for 20 minutes, it should be enough. Make sure you call Mrs. Hudson when it's ready."

"Hm, hm." Was all Sherlock said.

She didn't look at him twice, went out of the room and left to her own apartment. John decided to get ready as well; Lisa would be waiting for him at the entrance of the restaurant. He went upstairs and dressed up a bit. When he came down Dylan was saying her last goodbyes.

"Stay out of trouble and no matter what, don't call me. I am on a date." Then she said her farewell to John. "Later, John."

"Bye." He waved and he heard the door close downstairs. "Okay, so I'll be off too. Are you going to stay here all night?" He asked Sherlock.

"Maybe." That's all Sherlock answered. He then got up and started playing the violin and John knew quite well that it meant. He was sending him out of the apartment. He had seen him do the same to Mycroft once.

John walked the few streets that led to the restaurant where he and Lisa had agreed to meet. He had to admit that her move had been quite clever. He felt like she was flirting with him during consultation but was not sure. She was pretty, well dressed and more or less the same age as he. Still, he let her go with some prescriptions and proceeded to call the next patient. It was only when he made a small break to get a coffee and got up that he saw the handkerchief fallen next to the chair, half hidden under the table. He picked it up and saw it had a number. He decided to call. It was Lisa and she was very happy he had found it. He then asked her who keeps their phone number in handkerchiefs. She said she was very fond of that particular one. He laughed and she didn't say anything else, waiting for him to make a move. He then asked her if he could meet her to give her the handkerchief. For dinner, maybe. She asked him if he was trying to seduce her. He said, 'maybe, why?' She answered 'I thought I would have to pretend to be sick more than once a week to get your attention'. They had agreed to meet. Ah, he had missed it. The flirtation and going out, meeting new people. And, who knew, maybe she was the right for him. As long as he kept Sherlock away from her long enough.

She saw him before he did and they shook hands. Then he gave her the handkerchief and helped her inside the restaurant. It was a quiet place, lit only by a very dim light, cosy. Just like John liked. It had been her choice and John was glad.

They sat to order when John received a message.

"Excuse me, let me just check this." He picked the phone up and read the message. It was from Sherlock. He put the phone on the table, shaking his head.

"Is anything the matter?" Lisa asked.

"Oh, no, just a friend of mine."

The phone beeped again.

"Maybe I should turn it off." John said. Lisa smiled, friendly. Just as John was about to turn the phone off an urgent message appeared. John read it and looked at Lisa.

"Oh, not again." John complained.

"What is it?" Lisa asked, worried.

"It's a friend of mine. He seems to be in trouble."

Lisa looked at him, waiting for John to make a decision. He looked back at her and knew there was no way around it.

"Ah, listen. I am very sorry, but my friend is in danger. I need to help him."

"Oh, so you're leaving?" she said, smiling half-heartedly.

"Sorry. It may be important."

John picked up his coat and looked at Lisa a little indecisive, but left. That better be real or Sherlock would pay for it. He stopped a taxi and gave the address to the taxi driver, got to the spot where Sherlock had told him to meet up. It was a dark alley, on the outskirts of town but not too far from the centre. He paid the taxi and looked around, not knowing which way to go. He heard some quick footsteps. It was Dylan, putting on her coat. She stopped when she saw him.

"He sent you a message too?"

"Yeah, he did. He may be in trouble but I don't know where to start looking for him."

"In trouble? Why do you say that?"

"Well, the message he sent me…"

"What did it say?" Dylan asked, and she looked amused.

"Please come fast, I am in trouble. I need help." John quoted. Dylan laughed, looking around. "Why, what did yours say?" John inquired.

"There is a chase. Come quick."

"So, he's not in danger."

"He wouldn't message you if he was in real danger. This was all a set up. I guess he knows which strings to pull for both of us. So, there better be a chase. I didn't leave my date behind for this."

Dylan and John looked at each other and there was a loud noise. Right after they heard fast footsteps. Two people running on the other side of the street. Before they could see who was it or what was happening they heard Sherlock's voice.

"John, Dylan! That way!"

Dylan didn't take long to react. She said "Come on John!" and sprinted, looking to her side to check where Sherlock was headed. John began to run right after her.

"Do you think he gets a kick out of ruining people's dates?" John asked, right on Dylan's heels.

"Absolutely!" She shouted.

She turned to the left at the end of the street. They ran for a while and John realised Dylan knew London as well as Sherlock. She was focusing, only slowing down lightly to think of the best road to take. They could still hear Sherlock and whoever he was chasing running, getting closer. Dylan stopped abruptly and heard.

"This way!" She indicated.

There was a shortcut between two houses and a smaller street. Dylan went through it and a bit further they saw the man coming in their direction and going back again. That would give them and Sherlock an advantage. Dylan crossed the street, running faster and John followed. The shrieking of a car breaking suddenly filled the silence of the night. John's body flew in the air, being hit by the taxi he did not see. Dylan stopped abruptly and shouted his name, running to get closer to him. She held him by the arm and dragged him to the pavement, while the door of the taxi opened.

"John, are you okay?" Dylan asked, helping John sit on the pavement and trying to look at his face.

John felt an ache all over his body, worse in his arm. The taxi driver came out of the taxi, shouting at them.

"I am so sorry, I did not see you! You didn't even stop to look for cars! It was not my fault!"

Dylan turned to him.

"Yeah, sorry, we know. Our mistake." She raised John's face. "Jesus, you're bleeding! You got a big cut on your forehead…"

"Honestly, this is not my fault…"insisted the taxi driver.

"We know!" Dylan said, raising the tone of her voice and looking at the taxi driver. "Could you please keep it quiet, there's someone hurt here." And she turned to John again. "You're going to need stiches, your face looks pretty bad, no offense."

"I am okay." John said, trying to keep a brave face.

The taxi driver kept talking.

"I mean, what kind of crazy person crosses the street like that? I didn't even see you! And I wasn't driving fast! "

"Listen. We got it!" Dylan said. "Can you leave now? It was our fault."

"Well, I don't want any trouble with the police…."

"Get out!" Shouted Dylan, gesturing with her arm.

"What?"

"Out! Go away! Leave!" The taxi driver looked at her, shocked. That seemed to stop him there, unable to move. "Didn't you hear me? Get the hell out, go away now!" She shouted again.

The taxi driver looked at her as if she was mad, got in the taxi and drove away. She got back to John, who was trying to put it together, still sat on the floor.

"Okay, we need to go to the hospital." Dylan told him, calming down.

"No, I am fine." Said John getting up "We can go home and I can stitch…"

"You're not going to stitch yourself, are you crazy? We're going to the hospital right now. You may have a broken arm by the way you are holding it. It must hurt. You need to take an x-ray to it as well."

John knew her well enough to know it was no use trying to contradict her.

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah, I am okay." Dylan held his arm, helping him get up.

They heard someone running in the distance. Sherlock.

"Damn it, we lost him." Then he saw John. "Oh, god, what happened, are you okay?" he looked at John's face and got closer, studying the cut on his forehead.

"He was run over by a taxi. We crossed the street without looking. We need to go to the hospital."

"Here, take this." Sherlock gave John his scarf so he could keep some pressure on the wound. "Keep it steady."

"I know, Sherlock, I am a doctor."

Sherlock nodded, looking around him.

"Why didn't you ask the taxi driver for a ride to the hospital? It was the least he could do after running him over."

"Well, I kind of shouted at him." Dylan admitted.

"You shouted at…"

"Yes, he was pissing me off. It's not too far anyway, we can walk. He wanted to stitch himself." Dylan said, pointing out John. "Walking won't be a problem."

John smiled and flinched at the pain that inflicted on him. They walked together, Sherlock helping to steady John and Dylan holding him by his other arm.

Sherlock and Dylan waited at the hospital waiting room for John to get stitched and taken care of. Dylan looked at herself in the mirror and combed her hair with her fingers. Did she really look like that? Scary. She saw Sherlock smirking at her through the mirror and she smiled back. She turned around.

She got closer to him and made him sit down because he was much taller than her. Then she combed his hair as well, because it was so tangled up as hers.

"Who were we chasing back then?" She asked, sitting down next to him. "I hope John didn't get his forehead stitched for nothing."

"An important man in an unsolved case."

"New client?"

"Not really. A college. Though he did not hire me."

"How so?"

"Do you remember the case in the bank?"

"What, with the Chinese gang?"

"Yes. Sebastian, my University colleague, it was him who had hired me to solve that case for him. He disappeared a few weeks ago. Not the first one to disappear in the same conditions. If you read the newspapers there's been all kinds of strange things going on that seem to be all connected. So I made some research of my own and figured out a few things."

"Like what?"

"Like, there is gang working in some of the main capital cities in the world that wants to infiltrate in the most powerful companies and banks, societies, that sort of things. But they are disguising themselves as a satanic society."

"Satanic as in the modern term?"

"Yes. Like a religion, a cult, you name it. They gather people and make things happen and then they influence some other people, their pawns, to commit crimes for them. They kill people and then they infiltrate in big companies, like I said, and take minor positions, in order to get information and to be able to blackmail some important people."

"So, it's all about money?"

"Money, power. Domination, mostly."

"And why are you getting yourself involved in this?"

"I think they might have kidnapped Seb."

Dylan thought for a moment.

"But how do they get into those places? I mean, they could threaten people, threaten to kill their families and have people doing things for them…"

"Every victim they kidnapped is single, with no close family to actually care for them. That's why I found a pattern. Seb was not married, had no girlfriend and his parents died a few years ago. He doesn't have many friends either. No real close relationships."

"So, they kidnap people who wouldn't be exactly needed, so no one will really want to look for them after a while, those people who were kidnap return and find a way to get into big companies or are already working there so they can provide vital information. But, or the person is a very good actor or they will show they are under blackmail… I mean, anyone could ditch out at the first chance…"

"Not if it's not them." Sherlock looked at Dylan. "If you have people who believe in doing whatever it takes to achieve a greater purpose and a good plastic surgeon, you can do whatever you want. A similar voice, a similar body structure. All you need are good hands to turn it into the same face."

Dylan looked at Sherlock, unsure of what she was hearing. Sherlock saw her mind starting to keep up with him, but not totally convinced.

"Listen," He explained. "I know it sounds crazy. But Seb disappeared for a few weeks, then came back again, supposedly after some unannounced vacations. I passed him on the street the other day and he did not recognise me. There was a flaw there. Someone took his identity and made him give them information about everything and he forgot or did not want to mention me. I made some investigations of my own on the other victims. I kind of stole something from Lestrade. A key, and I checked on their addresses and they are all back. How do you explain four people disappearing and coming back after a few weeks? The man I was chasing was the first one to disappear. I've been tracking his steps but he doesn't have a settled schedule. But I found a pattern. They go every Friday to the same place to get information. So I guess we'll have to wait another week, if they don't change the pattern."

"Why doesn't the police…"

"The police never see anything, Dylan, you know it. The first two cases were more than a year ago. Now two more disappear in a space of 6 months. Nobody would relate it."

"You did."

"Yes, but I am… me. I enjoy using my brain." Sherlock affirmed. "I want to know what is happening. And if possible I would like to save Seb. I don't know what they can do after they stop needing him. They can keep him for information or they can just red rif of him. They can get rid of everyone. This is an important case."

Dylan looked at Sherlock's face, still unsure of what he had just told her. That was so elaborate. And still, Sherlock didn't get it wrong very often.

John came out of consultation and into the waiting room, a small bandage just above his right eyebrow. He made the check out at the reception and looked around. He found Dylan and Sherlock sat at a bench. They got up when they saw him. He smiled.

"Okay, I am taken care off."

"Did it hurt much?" Dylan asked.

"A little bit. But I got the doctor's number." He showed a paper with a number written on it. There was a mix of embarrassment and smugness in his face.

"You know you left your date back at 8h00, right? You abandoned her." Dylan said, not believing the nerve on this one.

"Yeah, she just gave me her number in case I want to make extra hours here at the hospital. They need doctors." John said, laughing. He had to supress the laugh, because it made his head hurt.

"You little… Agh." Dylan didn't finish. She took Sherlock's scarf out of John's hand. "This will need good washing."

"Let's go?" Sherlock asked, putting the collar up and walking out the door.

"Let's." Dylan agreed. She turned to John, looking at his face, a lip bloated and several scratches. She showed a mocking smile. "You are so going to look like crap at Camille's engagement party. You look like you were hit by a truck, not a taxi."

"That's the story I am going to tell Anthea. It's going to make me look tough." He looked at Sherlock and they both laughed. Dylan shook her head and asked.

"How far on the date where you, by the way?"

"I left her before we even started having dinner. I had ordered, though. So, she probably had two courses." And he asked. "You?"

"He had just ordered dessert. It's not going to be easy to look at him back in school. But well, maybe it was just not meant to be. Fate, you know?" She smiled, unaffected.

"Yeah. A fate named Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock saw a taxi approaching and raised his hand, a happy smile on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

The Saturday morning had risen with a beautiful blue sky. The sun, though not very warm, shone in the clean sky. It was a perfect morning for an engagement party.

John came out of his room and down the stairs, trying to fix the knot on his tie. He didn't use ties very often and he realised now that aptness is something you lose when you don't practise even in the smallest things. Sherlock was already in the living room sat on his chair, fully dressed, cleaning the bow of his violin with meticulous and slow strokes. He raised his eyes when he saw John.

"Good morning." John said.

"'Morning." Sherlock answered, without stopping what he was doing. He was wearing a suit and a white shirt, and he seemed like his normal self.

John picked up the newspaper and as he turned around to sit he looked at himself in the mirror above the fireplace. His lip, even if not as much as the day before, was still swollen. The scratches on his face did not look so pronounced, what was good. He had changed the bandage on his forehead after shaving that morning and that was the best he could do. He was a bit of a mess, anyway, but there was nothing he could do about it. Sherlock had told him the night before the reason for the chase and even though it seemed like a very intricate story he had no reason not to believe it. Both he and Sherlock had been in some strange cases. He looked at his wrist watch as he sat.

"Shouldn't we be going? I know we don't really have a time to be there, but still…"

"We're waiting for Dylan."

"Waiting for her? Why, where did she go?"

"She left early. Said she was supposed to help Molly with her hair and make-up. Also said she would be home on time."

Right as he finished saying this, the door downstairs opened and closed again and they heard hurried footsteps up the stairs. Dylan didn't even bother come to their apartment. She just shouted as she went to her own.

"I'll be right back! I just need to get dressed!" And she was off.

John looked at Sherlock.

"She's not ready yet. She is going to take ages."

But, to John's disbelief, fifteen minutes later they heard the sound of steps coming up the stairs again and Dylan entered the room. She had her long, dark hair braided to the side and just a tiny bit of make-up that brightened her feature. She was wearing a black knee-length dress and some flat sandals. Simple, but charming.

"Okay, I am ready." She announced, looking at them. "Shall we go?"

Sherlock put the violin on its stand and got up. He gave her a kiss on the forehead.

"You look very beautiful today." He said. She looked at him and smiled and he smirked, putting the coat of the suit on. John got up as well.

"Yes, you look very nice today. The dress suits you."

"You look very nice yourself. Never saw you wearing a tie before. Anthea will be impressed. If she can get over the swollen lip and all the scratches…"

John nodded, a bit embarrassed.

"Yes, well… we'll see."

They smiled at each other and followed Sherlock out of the apartment. A taxi stopped outside 221B and they got in. They still had to ride to where the party would take place. It was a nice view outside the window and soon they were travelling through green and open fields. The taxi pulled over next to the biggest house John had ever seen. A white, imposing mansion rose before them, circled by a very well treated garden. The gate was open, ready to welcome the guests. The garden, light poles and all trees that surrounded the way until the entrance of the house were decorated with lights, that were still turned off, and beautiful white roses.

They got out of the taxi and paid the taxi driver who went away, driving slowly. They walked in through the gates and to the side of the house, following a path of flowers. A doorman was ready to welcome them and take their coasts. He then told them they could enjoy the party. They thanked and looked around. On the back of the house was the biggest garden. Everywhere were tables set with food and drinks and fancy-dressed waiters offering drinks and picking up empty glasses and appetizers' trays. On the far end of the garden there was a bandstand made of wood, probably where the announcement would be made. There was a band as well, playing romantic songs and having fun. Many guests had already arrived and despite the size of the garden, it seemed like a big part of London was there.

"This is quite a big crowd for an engagement party." John noted.

"Yes. My brother sure has a thing for greatness." Sherlock said, looking around. "I will make some acquaintances on my own." He announced.

Dylan pulled him by his shirt.

"Remember: this is our niece's engagement party. Not a place for your own delight. Be nice to people."

"Am I ever not nice to people?" He asked, sarcastic. But nodded in agreement and Dylan let him go. She and John saw him blend with the crowd, observing.

A woman's voice called.

"Dylan, is that you?"

She and John turned around. A woman wearing more gold than what was reasonable to look actually beautiful was coming in their direction. She hugged Dylan.

"Oh my god, I haven't seen you in so long! You look the same. And you look so nice today!"

"I am quite older than the last time we saw four years ago, Marge."

"Oh, non-sense. You look great! Mycroft told me you have a job at the university! He is so proud of you!"

"Oh, is he?" she asked, surprised. "What a pity he never says that to me himself."

"Oh, no hard feelings. You know how your brother can be sometimes."

"And how can he be?"

Mycroft approached them. He was wearing an expensive suit, but looked just like his own everyday self.

"Oh, just afraid to show his emotions." Marge said, holding his arm and patting it in a warm way.

"Ah, emotions, the stranglers of reasoning." He smiled at Dylan and at John. "You look very nice today, Dylan. You too Dr. Watson, very formal. Were you ran over by a car?" And without waiting for an answer he looked around. "And where is our lovely brother?"

"He went for a walk." Dylan informed.

"Hum, I see. I better go and see if I find him before he decides to ruin my daughter's party. You know how that would make him happy." Mycroft said. And, as Sherlock had done before, also he came close to Dylan and gave her a kiss on the forehead, filled with affection. He looked at her with pride and still holding his wife's arm he turned around, trying to find Sherlock among the crowd.

"Now, that was strange." Dylan said, looking at them going away.

"What?"

"Affection." She said.

"Oh, come on." John refuted. "Sherlock is not exactly the affectionate type and he hugs you all the time."

"Yes, but that's Sherlock. That has always been Sherlock to me. Not Mycroft." She shrugged. "Maybe he is getting soft with age."

Both she and John laughed. Mycroft and being soft in the same sentence was not a very common thing.

"Aunt Dylan?"

Camille came closer to them, smiling.

"Wow, you look so nice today! I love you shoes. No heels?"

"Absolutely not!" Dylan smiled at her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She then held Camille's hand and took a look at the engagement ring. "Congratulations. It's beautiful. And you look… overjoyed. I like it."

"Thank you. I am really happy. I did not expect it at all but now this is all I want. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes, I do." Dylan answered. She did not, really, but that was not what Camille was expecting her to say.

"And who is this? Is he your…"

"No." Dylan said straight away. "He's Sherlock's."

"Sherlock's? Boyfriend?"

"No, I am not his boyfriend." John looked at Dylan, who had a roguish smile on her face. "I am not actually gay, even. I am John Watson. I and Sherlock, we share a flat, that's all."

"Oh, yes, I've heard a lot about you! My father and all those cases on the newspaper. So, you're the famous Dr. John Watson. It's very nice to finally meet you. I hope you enjoy the party."

Someone called Camille's name as she was shaking hands with John.

"Sorry, I really need to circle around and compliment people. There's a lot to compliment and I don't know more than half of them."

And smiling again she left, without looking back.

"Why did you say I was Sherlock's?" John asked Dylan who tried to supress a laugh.

"Well, you kind of are. Sherlock's friend and flat mate. Adventurous companion." And she furrowed her eyebrows. "I must look like crap every day. Everybody tells me how lovely I look today."

"Well, it's a special day, people want to be nice." John said, very simply.

"People want to be nice… Are you saying then that I look like crap today as well?" Dylan inquired, with a false look of shock on her face.

Before John could answer Sherlock arrived, walking calmly, his hands behind his back.

"There's 347 people in this party and I still had to introduce someone to Mycroft. I have figured out quite a few intriguing and interesting things, though." He smiled, pleased.

"And I feel a little underdress too. It's like people are dressed to receive a BAFTA or something." Dylan said, accepting a glass of juice a passing waiter offered her. She took a sip and made a strange face.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked.

"No sugar." She drank the rest of the juice all at once. Might as well get it over with at once.

Sherlock had frozen in place. He was looking at something in the distance, right behind Dylan. She turned around. Inspector Lestrade and Molly had just walked in to the garden and were holding hands. Molly saw them as soon as she looked around and pointed that out to the inspector. He smiled and the both of them walked in their direction. Sherlock was starting to pace behind but Dylan put herself between him and John and held his arm, waving back at Molly.

"You stay exactly where you are." She warned Sherlock.

"Hello!" Molly said, with a very happy smiled. She looked at Sherlock and lowered her eyes before looking at Dylan. "You look so nice!"

"Oh, here we go." Dylan said and grabbed a piece of Molly's hair between her fingers. "I like your hair and make-up. I wonder who took care of that."

Molly laughed.

"Oh, was it you?" inspector Lestrade asked. Dylan nodded, smiling. "Well, what can you not do? It looks perfect. I mean, she looks always perfect, but today even more." And he gazed at Molly with an infatuated smile in his face. Molly blushed slightly, embarrassed.

"Well, I am thirsty and that juice I had sure was not good. Molly, will you come with me and get some drinks?" Dylan inquired, taking Molly's hand for a tiny second. Molly nodded. "Do you guys want anything?"

John and inspector Lestrade ordered their drinks but Sherlock didn't want anything. The girls left then, giggling and chatting.

"So, you and Molly?" John asked Lestrade.

"Yes, it seems like it. She's a wonderful, wonderful person. Sweetest one I've ever know."

"I like to see you happy at last. And Molly too, she does deserve to be happy."

"Yes, she does." Lestrade agreed. " I just hope I am up to what she deserves, I will certainly do my best." He said. "What happened to your face?" He asked John.

"Oh, this. Yes, I was run over by a taxi. I crossed the road without looking."

"You have to be more careful. Streets these days are not safe at all." Lestrade said.

They heard the girls laughing and saw they were having trouble carrying the drinks alone, passing glasses from hand to hand.

"I better go help them. I still have to talk to Mycroft and I would like to see the bride to be. I'll see you around. Hope that face gets better." He said to John, mocking him.

John nodded and Lestrade took a last look at Sherlock and went away to meet the girls, reaching out to get his own drink. He and Molly talked with Dylan for a bit, before saying goodbye to her.

"You're not saying anything." John pointed out at Sherlock.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Molly and Lestrade."

"I am very happy for them." Sherlock said, indifferent.

Dylan approached them and passed John his drink.

"Should we circle around as well?" They started to pace side by side. "I am really happy for Molly. She deserves to have someone who loves her. And Lestrade seems to like her very much."

She looked at Sherlock, who ignored her. John was looking at someone in the distance.

"Ah, will you excuse me? I see Anthea over there. May I borrow this?"

And without even waiting for a response from any of them he took Dylan's untouched drink from her hand and headed in althea's direction.

"Your friend is very smooth." Dylan said.

Sherlock smirked, looking at her. She asked.

"May I ask you something? And you promise you will be honest with me?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Of course." He said.

"Do you like Molly?"

Before Sherlock could answer there was a loud scream coming from the house that they heard through an open door. Sherlock hurried in the direction of the noise and Dylan followed him, a worried look on her face.

They entered the house, passing through many people who were now gathering, alarmed by the scream. They followed the crowd to a small room right next to the kitchen. They passed through the people, pushing here and there. A waitress, fully dressed in her apron had frozen against the wall, a hand covering her mouth. She was the one who had screamed. When Sherlock looked at the floor he saw at what. A young, suited man was lying on the floor, his eyes wide open and a knife thrust to his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock got close to the body, kneeling by its side.

"Everybody needs to get out of here." He said to Dylan. "Get Lestrade. And Mycroft. This is the groom. Or was."

Dylan looked at the deceased man on the floor. Yes, the groom indeed.

"I need everyone to get out of here. Please." Dylan said, sending people away. She turned to the waitress that was still against the wall, unable to do anything and informed her. "There is an inspector coming by, I will need you to talk to him and tell him what you saw when you got here, okay? Come with me."

Dylan dashed out of the room, grabbing the lady by the arm and helped her sit on a kitchen chair. Mycroft, probably because he saw a big crowd gathering next to the house, was coming in that direction. When he entered the kitchen, Dylan approached him.

"It's the groom Mycroft. He's dead." Mycroft flinched for a second.

"How?" he asked.

"Sherlock is still on it." She looked through the window. "Oh, no, it's Camille. Go, don't let her in here. See if someone can find Lestrade."

"I would like to see the body."

"Mycroft, your daughter is about to see her boyfriend dead. Go, now." She commanded. "And send Lestrade."

Mycroft looked out the window at Camille and back at Dylan. He decided to leave.

"I'll find him." He said. He was already grabbing his mobile phone. Lestrade was needed now and God knows where in that party he was.

"Please, stay here, okay? Someone will come to talk to you." Dylan asked again of the waitress, who was now silently crying.

She opened the door of the room without making noise and observed Sherlock.

Sherlock was looking at the body without touching it. Male, mid-twenties. Dark brown hair and eyes. A quality suit, Armani from the tag on the vest. The white linen shirt was open down to the fourth button and the tie was loose, still hanging from the neck. The vest was also opened and unbuttoned. The shirt was tucked in inside the trousers apart from a little part on side. Messed hair. The stains on his fingers showed he was an avid smoker. His lips were wet. Whiskey, Sherlock could tell from the smell.

Inspector Lestrade walked in the room. He looked at Dylan, who was watching Sherlock without moving and then at Sherlock and at the body on the floor.

"So, what do you have?" Lestrade asked, getting closer.

"A blunt knife, by the aspect of the wound, thrust right to his heart. Must be at least 4 inches big to have killed him. He's been here for a few hours already, I think. The murderer was left-handed."

"Can you tell?"

"No blood stains on the left side of the handle. I would say it was a man's job."

"Why?"

"With a blunt knife you need quite a strong stab to perforate the heart and kill. Whoever stabbed him had to be strong. And to now about anatomy. A blow like this was not just luck. He knew what he was doing."

"Okay, I am going to call Scotland Yard. We need to bring a forensics team here. Don't touch anything."

Just as he said that Sherlock picked the man's jacket. It was on the floor, abandoned. He rummaged through the pockets but did not find what he was looking for. Then he proceeded to look at the deceased's trousers.

"Sherlock, there's going to be fingerprints all over the place, what are you doing?"

"You won't find the murderer's fingerprints anyway." Sherlock said, absent minded.

"Why not?"

"Look at the splatters of blood on the knife, the way he held it. There's no fingerprints there, just a soft mark. Whoever killed him was wearing gloves."

"Gloves?" Lestrade asked, as if Sherlock had lost his mind. "It's warm today, it's summer. Who the hell wears gloves in the summer?"

Dylan was looking outside the window, a small gathering of people was chatting, some of them not realising yet what had happened. It was her who answered.

"Waiters." She said, pointing out. "They all have white gloves."

Sherlock was still around the room, kneeling on the floor and on the carpet, looking underneath it.

"What are you looking for, Sherlock?"

"Where are the rings?"

"What rings?"

"Their rings. The engagement rings! They were going to announce their engagement and exchange rings. Where are they? Not with him."

The room they were in was almost empty. A big table in the centre. A chair and a smaller table next to the window. Sherlock looked on the floor again, under the small table. Nothing. The window was opened.

"Whoever left went through the window. There are footprints on these flowers. Quite big. Like I said before, a man's. "

"Okay, I am going to make a call and see if I can find Molly as well. Don't touch anything else. We need to interview the catering personal and I need to have someone taking a look at those footprints."

John came out of the garden, slipping between the crowd of people who had refused to leave the house. Household hired for the day, most of them. He nodded to Lestrade as he walked in the room.

"Oh my God, it's true! I found Mycroft."

"Where is he?"

"Talking to Camille. She fainted and has just come to herself." He then approached the body and turned to Sherlock. "What do you think?"

"Take a look." He said to John. "Blunt knife. Straight to the heart."

"So, whoever killed him knew what they were doing. He died almost immediately I would say." Affirmed John.

"I believe so." Agreed Sherlock. " Lestrade is going to interview the catering personal. We need to talk to them and see who from the waiters is missing."

"The waiters? Why"

"Blood spatters on the knife. Gloves. Only the waiters have gloves."

Sherlock got out of the room followed by John and Dylan. The waitress that had given the alarm was still sitting on the chair. Lestrade came inside.

"They're on their way. They shouldn't take long."

Sherlock nodded and asked the girl.

"What did you see?"

She looked at him, unsure.

"I walked in the room and there he was on the floor, with the knife on his chest… I…"

"That's why you screamed?"

"Yes. Of course." She felt unease by his lack of tact.

"Did you see anyone, hear anything?"

"No. Just him."

"Has nobody heard a scream?"

"Not that I know."

"What is that room used for?"

"For nothing, really. I believe it is just a spare room."

"So, what were you doing there?"

"I needed a break, okay? It's the second time I am serving at these kind of events and I was nervous."

"I made you a question. What were you doing there?"

"I was going to smoke. I didn't think anyone had any reason to get into that room so I was going to take the chance and smoke."

"It's right beside the kitchen, weren't you afraid of being seen?"

"Well, we don't work in this kitchen. The big kitchen is on the other side of the house. So, I didn't think it was probable. I just walked in and there he was."

"Okay." Said Lestrade. "We need to investigate the catering and see if anyone is missing. Do the waitresses wear gloves?" He asked the girl.

"No, just the men. Most girls are working in the kitchen but the men work outside, with the people, so they have gloves, we don't."

"Very well." Lestrade acquiesced, deciding to leave the girl alone. She had had enough for a day. "I will make the questions to the rest of the people, then." And he turned to Dylan. "Think you can help me gather those who worked inside? I will look for the waiters."

"You don't serious believe the murderer is still here, do you?" Sherlock asked.

"We're not sure, so we'll do as I say."

And Lestrade and Dylan left him with John. They came back, this time together, less than half an hour later with pretty much everyone.

"It's crazy outside." Dylan said to John, who was alone leaning to a wall. Sherlock had gone back to the small room to look for the rings. "Everybody knows by now and the forensic team got here already and they are checking on the footprints outside. The waiters and waitresses are so many."

"Okay, here's what we are going to do." Said Lestrade, stopping at the entrance of the kitchen. The number of employees was quite impressive. They were gathered outside of the house entrance as they were too many to fit in the small kitchen. "I have your responsible here and I am going to question him. If any of you know of anything, you will interrupt me and let me know. In case someone missed it, there's been a murder here and we are gathering witnesses. I will not answer any questions. I will question and you will answer for now, do you understand?"

There was a murmur of agreement from the household. Molly walked past them and into the room where the dead body was being removed from. She nodded at Lestrade and he continued, looking at the responsible for the personnel.

"Is there anybody missing from your employees?"

"Well, not really. I mean, we have Jenny, but she called in sick and…"

"It wasn't her. Move on." This time it was Sherlock's voice that talked, apparently bored with the fact that Lestrade had taken the lead on the investigation without even calling for him.

"There was also Steve. But he isn't missing really; he called yesterday saying he was feeling sick and was not sure if he would come today. He said he would do his best to be here but we were not counting on him. So, he is also not here, but we knew."

"That's not truth."

A man's voice resounded from the end of the row of employees. The owner of that voice came closer. A tall, tanned boy, not older than 25, stood out from the crowd. It was the doorman, though he had a different outfit from the one they saw when they gave him their coats to keep, earlier that morning.

"What do you mean, it's not true?" asked the responsible.

"It is true that he was not supposed to come to work today." He said to the responsible. And then he looked at inspector Lestrade. "But he showed up. I've been guarding the entrance since early morning and he came by a one hour ago or so. He said he was feeling better after all and that he had decided to come, because we needed his help."

"Has anybody seen this Steve ever since?" Inspector Lestrade made the question.

All heads were shaking, a negative answer.

"We have our criminal." Sherlock said.

"You don't know that. " Lestrade denied. "Steve has to be in the party yet, right?" he asked the doorman. "You were keeping the gates, you would have known if he had gone away. The entrance has been supervised since you left and if anyone tried to leave they would tell me. So he still has to be here."

"Well, not quite." The young man said. "I… I had been the whole day dressed as waiter because Steve was supposed to make some cocktail show in the middle of the afternoon with a few other colleagues. But since he wasn't sure if he was coming they asked me to replace him, because from everyone who works here I was the only person who was also able to do it. It was warm in the front of the house, sun straight at me. So, when I saw him walking in I decided to go and change clothes. Basically everyone from the list was already in, so I figured it was okay and I would be quick."

"So, there is a chance he may have escaped through the main entrance." Lestrade said. Not a question, but an affirmation.

"And why would he want to escape from the entrance if not because of a murder?" Sherlock pointed out. Then he asked the doorman.

"Was he fully dressed? Clothes, bowtie, gloves… everything?"

"Yeah, he was late already. So, yes."

"Does he happen to have any knowledge of anatomy?"

"He damn should. He is studying to become a doctor. We are in the same University, though I am studying something else. We work on weekends to help pay the college."

"Hum." Sherlock thought for a while. Does your friend have a girlfriend?" He asked.

"Girlfriend? He's gay as a goose." Everybody looked at him. "I mean, he is homosexual, he just doesn't… hasn't come out of the closet to everyone yet. I guess he has now, anyway."

He seemed quite embarrassed of the information he was giving. But now it was too late to shut his big mouth.

"Has anyone heard a scream?" Sherlock asked, before Lestrade could dismiss the personnel. Apart from the reason of the crime, the person to commit it seemed quite easy to spot. Lestrade was already giving orders and Sherlock expected the inspector to leave very soon in search for his murderer.

The faces of the household matched each other. Apart from the scream of the waitress that set the alarm for the crime no one had heard a scream. Lestrade dismiss them.

"Why are you asking if anyone heard a cream?"

"Well, a man was stabbed on the heart and nobody heard anything. Two pairs of rings are missing. Don't you find this strange?"

"Sherlock… you seem so convinced the murderer is the waiter, when in fact it could be a thousand other people, especially when the doorman himself said he was not at the door the whole afternoon, and you are picking on such a tiny thing?"

His phone rang. He picked up and talked to the person on the other side for a while. He hung up. "There. It's him. He went to the police to confess the murder. We got our murderer, Sherlock. We'll see about the rest, I am pretty sure there is an easy explanation."

He walked out of the house and Donovan came to talk to him but they were already too far away for Sherlock to be able to hear anything.

"Let's go." He said to John and Dylan.

"Where?" John asked, but followed him without hesitation.

"Scotland Yard. I won't miss what our murderer has to say for anything in the world. I want to make sure my suspicions are correct."

And in spite of Lestrade's complaints, the inspector had no other choice but to let them follow him.


	5. Chapter 5

When inspector Lestrade arrived to Scotland Yard, Steve Mason was in the interrogation room, waiting for him already. He had given himself in voluntarily and, even though he was nervous, he had been sitting on the chair since they put him there, without any attempt to run and without saying any word. Lestrade thanked Donovan for getting the suspect ready for the interrogation and stopped before getting into the room, looking at Sherlock.

"This is our case. You are going to let me make the questions and I am going to let you listen through the mirror room. He will not be able to see you, as you know. I will allow you to make any questions but only when I finish and you will have to ask Agent Donovan for permission. She'll be there with you. Agree?"

"I don't have any choice, I assume." Sherlock said, putting his hands behind his back.

"No, you don't." Inspector Lestrade agreed. He then opened the door of the room, closing it on Sherlock's face. Agent Donovan was waiting for him, John and Dylan.

"Are you coming, then?" She asked.

She didn't wait for an answer. They followed her, without a word.

Through the mirrored glass they could see the man. Short brown hair. Dark eyes, almost black and was still wearing the waiter's outfit, bowtie and all. There was no sign of the gloves, though. He was very still, with the hands interlaced. He raised his head when he saw inspector Lestrade coming in. He was going to get up but the inspector ordered him to stay sit with the gesture of his hand. The man obeyed and waited. Lestrade sat as well, facing him, with a file on his hand.

"You came to the police to confess the murder of Mr. Mark Spencer. Do you confirm this?"

The man cleared his throat.

"Yes, I do."

"And you refused the presence of a lawyer."

"For now I did."

"May I ask you why? You know you have the right to a lawyer, one from the estate if you can't afford one."

"Yes, but I… I just want to take this out of me, okay? I know I will need one for my sentence, but for now I just need to talk to the police… I…"

The words didn't come out. You could see shame on his face, repulse even.

"I am a monster." He affirmed.

Inspector Lestrade did not comment to that. He proceeded.

"I will continue with the questions, since you refuse to have a lawyer by your side and you are aware of what you are asking for."

"I am." Was the man's ready answer.

"Why did you kill Mr. Spencer? I would like to hear the story from the beginning. When did you get to the party, everything. Your colleague saw you getting in to the party."

"Yes. He was at the entrance." He paused, trying to focus on his story. "I was feeling a little sick yesterday and today in the morning, but in the afternoon I felt better so I decided to go to work. I knew they needed me for a cocktail show and I could use the money as well."

Lestrade interrupted him.

"It says here on the file you are studying to be a doctor. Third year."

"Yes. But I am not rich, and I have to work, mostly on weekends, to pay for my studies. I've been working with the catering for almost two years now."

"Very well. You got to the party, what happened then?"

"I was fully dressed so I went to the back of the house to tell my boss I was there and to start serving right away. I had my uniform on already so that I didn't lose any time. I was walking by the side of the house when I looked through an open window and… and I saw him."

"Mr. Spencer?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. Mark. He was in a room. With a woman. He was… they were kissing."

Lestrade's face hardened a little.

"By woman, you do not mean Camille Holmes, do you?"

"Of course I don't mean Camille, why would I mind if it was Camille?"

"Why would you mind if it wasn't?"

Sherlock, on the other room, rolled his eyes.

"Of course he would mind!" Sherlock said, more to himself than to anyone else. "They were lovers, for God's sake!"

"What?" John asked, looking at Sherlock. "What do you mean lovers?"

"There's only one way to be someone lover, John. You know what I mean."

"But, how do you…"

"I am trying to listen." Sherlock said and looked at the scene that was developing in front of his eyes.

The man resumed his story.

"You see… I and Mark… We were lovers."

The affirmation fell like a bomb on inspector Lestrade.

"Lovers? But Mark is not homosexual. He was going to marry Camille. He proposed."

"Well, he is not heterosexual either, but you don't think he would admit that to his parents, with the position he had, do you? They're all a bunch of prejudiced people, they would disinherit him. They would never understand. Their son was perfect; there was no time for this kind of nonsense. So, yes, we were lovers. He did love Camille in his own way, I guess. But it was mostly to keep appearances."

The man sighed, as if tired of that conversation. Lestrade waited and he continued.

"So, I saw him kissing this woman and I don't know what got over me. I just… he never told me, you see? One thing is Camille. I was with him before she was. And I understood that he had to marry her, and be with her. But to betray me with someone else? I just couldn't take it. So I walked in the house, I didn't know what to do, how to confront him. I passed the small kitchen and I saw the knife. I grabbed it. As I approached the door the woman was coming out of the room. She had a smile of pleasure on her face that made everything worse and she didn't see me, she just closed the door. I walked in the room as soon as she disappeared to the back of the house and Mark was next to the table, I just got next to him and I… stabbed him. I knew I needed strength with that blunt knife and I think that, unconsciously, I didn't want him to suffer much, so I just stabbed him straight in the heart. I think he died immediately."

"Did he scream?"

Sherlock's voice sounded in the room, startling both Steven and Inspector Lestrade. Steven looked at the inspector, unsure of what to do.

"You can answer." Lestrade allowed.

"No, he didn't scream."

"What was his reaction?" Sherlock proceeded.

"I don't think he had one." Steven thought for a moment. "He was just standing there and I got to him and I stabbed him. He didn't move. I was too quick."

"And he didn't scream at all when you stabbed him? Nor tried to jerk away?"

"No. He just fell on the floor." He looked at inspector Lestrade. "I panicked and I went out the window. I was wearing my gloves so I didn't even bother taking the knife with me. But then I got home and I realised what I had done and… I don't deserve to live. I am a monster."

"We can all agree on that."

Lestrade rolled his eyes again to the sound of Sherlock's voice and signalled Donovan to send Sherlock away but it was not necessary. Sherlock was already leaving the room, followed by Dylan and John.

"I need to go." He said to Dylan and to John, who looked at him.

"What do you mean you need to go? What about us?"

"You can do whatever you want. I have to see Molly. And the body. I need to go alone."

And he entered the taxi that had just stopped, not even leaving them a chance to get in as well. Dylan and John looked at each other.

"Would you like to hear the rest of the inquiry?"

"Sure."

They walked in the building again but Steven Mason was already being sent to a cell, handcuffs on his wrists.

"What's going to happen to him?" John asked Donovan.

"A long time in jail, I assume."

"Aren't you going to interrogate the woman? The one who was with Mark?"

"Yes, just formality. He confessed to the crime but we need to make sure all pieces are in place, we can't leave anything forgotten or the jury may create difficulties. Someone must be bringing her here right now."

"So, was her easy to recognise?"

"Yes. There was a case Mark was involved in two years ago. It was all kept in a very low key, he and his father, they know people. You know how these things work."

"What happened?"

"Mark and a partner had a company, a society, but his father found him something better. So, before leaving his own company Mark, somehow, made his partner sign a paper and the partner lost everything. He tried to sue Mark but, obviously, claiming he had been deceived, with no success. The woman Steven saw kissing Mark was his partner's wife."

"Well, this story is getting interesting. So Steven recognised her because he knew the case?"

"Yes. That's how he knew it was her and that's why he was so upset that Mark did what he did."

"Do you mind if we stay for her interrogation?" Dylan asked.

"You don't seem to have your brother's attitude. I think you can."

And John and Dylan waited, wondering what was Sherlock up to.

0

Sherlock walked into St. Bart's. Molly would be working on the body. She had left the engagement party with the forensic crew. He walked into the morgue without knocking, silently. She was there, around the body, focused.

"Hello, Molly."

She jumped a little, startled.

"Sherlock! You scared me."

"Afraid of the living?" He smirked.

"A lot more than I am of the dead." She smiled back at him. "You come to check the body."

"Yes. There are a few things that I still can't figure out." He looked at the body on the table. "Do you know if anybody found the rings?"

"The rings?" Molly asked, a quizzical look on her face.

"Yes, the rings. Camille mentioned at the party that they were going to exchange commitment rings. Mark had them, he showed them to me. They were inside a box. But I searched on his suit and I couldn't find anything."

"Well," Molly said, getting away from the body and returning with something in her hand. "Were they something like this?"

And she opened her hand. There, placed on her palm, two wedding rings, almost the same size.

"Where were they?"

Sherlock put some gloves on and examined the rings, one by one. Yes, they were exactly the same.

"Well, that's the funny thing. In his throat."

"In his throat?"

"Yes, stuck in his throat."

"So, someone must have put them there."

"Exactly. I don't believe he would try to eat the rings. Specially because there was something else there." She picked a little piece of paper. "I had just found them before you got in. This was inside the rings; it was what was holding them together, actually. It has to be opened carefully. It still has a bit of saliva on it."

"May I?" Sherlock asked.

Molly assented with her head and advised him.

"You better do it upstairs. There are tweezers and other material you may need. That's fragile and may be important."

"Okay. Thanks you." And he was about to leave but stopped. "Molly may I ask something of you?"

She nodded.

"Can you please do a scan for poison? Clostridium Botulinum."

"Why? He was stabbed with a knife; the cause of death is obvious."

"Can you do it, please?"

"You know those things take time, Sherlock. And they are not on the routine drug screen. I may get in trouble for doing this."

Sherlock got close to her, still with gloves on and with the paper on his hand. He grabbed Molly's hand, she had gloves as well.

"This is important Molly. And you are the only one that can help me. Please do this for me. Please."

Molly sighed. It was always that easy for him, wasn't it? She nodded.

"Okay. I will meet you upstairs in a minute; I just need to finish him."

Sherlock let go of her hand and left the room, a smile lingering on his lips.

He entered the laboratory and placed the paper on a clean surface. He grabbed two small tweezers. The paper was wet but not so much to make it impossible to open. Still, he would have to be careful. He picked each corner slowly, allowing the paper to open without tearing apart. There was ink on it, someone had written something. When he finally managed to open it all he saw the words written in red ink, a bit blurred due to the humid environment the paper had been in. He looked at the words, unable to look away. Molly entered the room.

"Okay, I am done downstairs, I will run the test. This better be important, Sherlock, or I swear that if I get in trouble because of you…"

Molly stopped talking, her eyes on Sherlock's worried face.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

Sherlock looked at her as if only now he had realised her presence in the room. He picked two pieces of plastic microscope slide and placed the thin paper in the middle of them. He then grabbed a small zip bag and put the piece inside it and all in his coat's pocket.

"I need to go. Please call me as soon as you have the results." That's all he said to Molly.

She stood there, looking at him leaving and shook her head. Might as well get to work, Sherlock seemed alarmed, so whatever he asked her to do must have been important and worthy getting into trouble.

0

Sherlock got out of the cab, at a fast pace. He hit someone who was passing on the street. It was Dylan.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, running her fingers through her hair to smooth it a little.

"I found out something. I knew there was something tricky about this case, it couldn't be just Steven stabbing him."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

"The scream! How didn't he scream? If he was being stabbed he would scream. I hear it is painful."

"Mind you using sarcasm at this time."

Sherlock looked around and took the zip bag out of the pocket. He picked the paper still between the two pieces of microscope slide and showed them at Dylan. There, in capital red writing were three letters. I O U.

Dylan picked the piece, examining.

"Where did you find this?"

"Remember the rings that were missing?" Dylan nodded. "Molly found them on Mark's throat. This paper was holding them together. I knew there was something wrong from the beginning. I bet he was poisoned before he was stabbed. Clostridium Botulinum! It paralyses the muscles, starts in your head and goes down from there. Steven said that he entered the room as soon as the woman left. Mark was drinking whiskey before he died. If she had poisoned the drink and he had drank it right before Steven got in, there would be time enough for Mark to be paralysed but still alive, therefore Steven would not see that something was wrong, and the wound on his heart would still bleed, because the heart was still working. That's why he didn't scream!"

"How did you realise all this?"

"Two rings missing, the first time was a pink case. The poison, the same that killed Carl Powers. Now this paper. It's all the same again."

"It' a copycat." Dylan affirmed. There was a hint of fear on her voice.

"No." Sherlock looked at her. "It's not a copycat. It's him."

He paced around, looking at everything except at Dylan.

"We have to tell Lestrade, they just finished interrogating the woman. It was her, then. She has to know something. Even if she was used to make all this, she has to know."

"I am not yet sure about the poison, it's just a hint. Lestrade won't take a hint, he needs proof. Molly is doing the scan for it. It may take a few hours."

Dylan looked around and Sherlock questioned, noticing for the first time.

"Where's John."

"John!" Dylan said. "Yes! That's why I was asking why you were here. You called him."

"I didn't."

Dylan's eyes opened in horror.

"He received a call from you telling him to meet you alone at the old theatre. I was waiting for John to call me and tell me what that was all about."

They stared at each other, the same look of terror on their face.

"Damn it!" And Sherlock started sprinting in the direction of the old theatre, with Dylan right on his heels.


	6. Chapter 6

"How long ago did he call you?" Sherlock asked, slowing down a little.

Dylan did the same, catching her breath.

"Half an hour, more or less. He said you asked him to meet you at the old Carlton Cinema."

Sherlock took the phone out of his pocket and raised his arm calling a taxi. The taxi stopped while he was still doing his research. They entered and Sherlock gave the address.

"Essex Road, number one, please." He said to the taxi driver. Then he turned to Dylan. "I wonder why they chose this specific theatre. It was turned into a bingo house until 2007. It's currently being used by some religious organization."

"You don't think that it's connected with Sebastian being missing, do you? The society you were talking about? Do you think they are in possession of the theatre right now? Disguised of that religious organization you talk about?"

Sherlock looked out the window, trying to conceal his fear and avoiding Dylan's question. The organization must have known he was looking for them. The connection with Sebastian Wilkes wouldn't have set them on his track, but the fact that he tried to chase one of their men had. He had been reckless in his urge to find the truth and he was afraid John would pay for it now. Dylan was still waiting for an answer.

"I am not sure, Dylan. I hadn't been able to figure out their headquarters. It is possible."

Dylan didn't say anything. The taxi was getting closer now and she could barely stand staying inside knowing John might be in danger. The taxi finally pulled over and Sherlock paid the taxi driver and both he and Dylan stood in front of the theatre.

The building had been designed in 1939 and all its façade had the form of an Egyptian pylon temple. The brightly coloured ceramic tiles were decorated with a lot of Egyptian iconography, including lotus flowers and buds. It was, all in all, an opponent place. The front door, as expected, was closed. Sherlock walked to the side of the building. The street was desert apart from an occasional car. Sherlock approached the side wooden door and with a gesture of the hand he pushed it. It opened without effort, screeching on its hinges. Inside it was dark and damp. They were in an old, dark room, but they could see a light at the far end. Sherlock looked behind himself at Dylan, trying to realise if she wanted to go as well. He knew the answer well but he was still apprehensive to put her right in the face of danger. She would always be his little sister after all. Dylan nodded, understanding his silent question. They walked slowly, following the yellow light.

The light led to the main hall. The windows were barricaded with pieces of wood and old chairs lied here and there. In the centre of the hall was John, all tied up to a chair. His face was facing the floor and they could see he had been gagged. Sherlock walked in his direction but a door on the right side opened, and with it Sebastian Wilkes walked in, pointing a gun, not at Sherlock, but at John.

"Not so fast." Sebastian said.

Sherlock looked at the man, scrutinizing his features. It was not Sebastian. There was something off in the way he talked and even though his voice was very close to Seb's voice, it was not his. His gestures were also a cheap imitation by a poor actor. He could tell the man tried, though. If he hadn't moved, Sherlock might even believe that he was Seb. The face was unmistakably the same.

Sebastian had approached John that seemed conscious but too tired to be able to raise his own head. The man helped, grabbing him by his short hair. John flinched at that, his eyes open wide, looking at Sherlock and Dylan with a fearful expression.

"So, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Said the man, calmly. "I knew you would come after your friend here. People are very predictable, even those who think they are different from everyone. Sebastian did tell me all about you, once we were able to connect who was the stranger that had followed and chased one of our men. He said you were a genius and had cracked many cases. And that you were also sort of a sociopath." He looked at Dylan and then at John. "I don't think that's quite true. I kidnapped your friend here and you came right away. Not much of a sociopath characteristic, is it now?"

Sherlock realised their position. In the rush to come and save John they were not even armed. He tried to buy them sometime.

"You shouldn't believe everything your eyes see without actually observing things. He is not my friend. He is my colleague. It's handy to have a doctor around when you are a consulting detective."

"Oh, is that so? So you wouldn't mind if I kill him, would you? I mean, doctors are fairly easy to find."

The man pressed the gun against John's head and Dylan came forward.

"Don't!" She shouted.

"Oh, looks like someone here cares!"

"What do you want from us?" Dylan asked. "We don't have any information about you to share. Nor any information that may be useful to you. So, why did you bring us here?"

"I came with a warning." The man said. The gun was still pointing at John's head. "What we are doing is none of your business. Sebastian Wilkes was used with a purpose and there is nothing you can do about him anymore. So I advise you to stay away from us. Don't try to know us, don't try to find us. Don't even try to understand what we do. Once you get to know the secret, whether you become a part of it forever, or you die." He asked Sherlock this time. "Would you like to become a part of it? We could use your deduction skills."

"I wouldn't be of much assistance." Sherlock said. "And I don't cooperate with criminals."

"Well, you can't really call us that. We have a greater purpose. And I am sure you would like to know what our purpose is. Get you out of the boredom. Aren't you curious, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. The man made him feel uncomfortable. Not just because he looked like Seb, but there was something else, something in his voice he could recognise.

"Tell me," Sherlock said, pacing to the right side, leaving Dylan alone on his left. The man removed the gun from John's head and pointed it at Sherlock. "Are you all copies of each other? Who do you work for?"

"I told you I can't tell you. There is a price for everything, Mr. Holmes."

"Once, I played a very interesting game. A pity someone killed my opponent before I was able to crack the puzzle."

The stranger showed some signs of apprehension.

"What do you mean?" He inquired, when Sherlock didn't say anything, still pacing from side to side.

"Oh, you don't know? I've been actually looking for you for quite a long time, but had no clue or way to find you. A long time ago, I had a chat with your father. He tried to convince me to take a pill, you see. Actually, he threatened me, like you are doing right now. But John there killed him. And saved my life."

Sherlock noticed a slight tremble on the man's hand.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Holmes. But I have to tell you it seems like a very amusing story."

"Oh, don't pretend like you don't understand! Someone once told me that the problem with a disguise is that, no matter how hard you try, it's always a self-portrait." And he proceeded. "You knew I was going to come here looking for John. You knew I would fall in your little game. Just like your father did. Oh, you cared about him, didn't you? And he cared about you too. That's why he was working for Moriarty. To assure their kids would get money. And I was too blind to see at first. No, it was not his kinds. But the kid, the adolescent. The man. The child no one knew existed, except him and your mother. Did it hurt that he decided to hide you from the world? I suppose it did. But you knew he loved you, and that's why you took it all, that's why you never came forward and made a scandal when you found out who your real father was. The money he was getting from Moriarty was for you. That's why he was doing that job, killing these people. To assure you a future, since he wasn't able to be present when you needed. He was making up for concealing you all of his life to save his marriage that eventually ended. But he failed, didn't he? He failed to kill me and he lost everything. So you decided to look for means to get your revenge. And I am sure you went to the same source your father did. James Moriarty, consultant criminal."

The man was still staring at Sherlock. He continued, using the attention he was getting.

"Well, it's a pity your father died, you see. I cracked his puzzle. I know how he outlived all those people. Would you like to hear the story?"

The man seemed to compose himself a little. He pointed the gun at John again.

"You are just bluffing. You don't know how."

"Will you tell me if I do know? If I get it right?"

He saw the way the other pondered to assume what Sherlock was telling as the truth, or keep with his disguise. He decided for the first.

"How do you know who I am?"

"I made some research of my own. I found you out. I always thought you would follow a different path from your father, especially after what happened to him. I guess I was wrong. And now you come here, with Seb's face - you lot have a wonderful surgeon I must say - and I wouldn't make the connection. Except for one thing." He looked at the man, in his eye. "The way you said Mr. Holmes. The way you kept repeating it. You see, it was just like your father. And I can also see you got hold of his old taxi tag. "

Sherlock pointed at the man's chest. There, concealed by the shirt, was the brown leather necklace. The man removed the necklace from inside the shirt and let it hang, falling to his chest, in a sign of defiance.

"And you made a very good job pretending you didn't know me on the street, I must admit." Sherlock added. "Already with Sebastian's face, you knew you couldn't take any chance. Well done."

"So," The man said. "You cracked the puzzle."

Sherlock nodded. By the corner of his eye he saw Dylan move a little bit. The man's eyes were set on him, the gun on John's head still.

"Care to enlighten me?"

"You know the answer." Sherlock pointed.

"Yes, I do. But I want to make sure you do as well. Actually, let's do something. If you crack the puzzle I will let you go, and your friend. If you fail, I will just shoot him. How does that sound to you? You see, like my father, I also fancy a good charade."

There was a hint of enjoyment in the man's voice and Sherlock nodded again, swallowing hard. He looked at John. His bruises were worse, which meant the man must have hit him pretty bad before tying him up. He took a deep breath.

"It was in the water." He said. "The poison. It was not in the pills he gave the victims and took himself, but in the water he gave the victims to swallow the pills."

The man smiled, dragging the gun to John's temple and pulling the trigger. John closed his eyes. Out of the shadows Dylan grabbed a chair, hitting as hard as her arms allowed. She almost hit John on the way, but the act had the desired effect. The man was caught by surprise, and as the chair hit his hand, he dropped the gun. Dylan attacked again, as Sherlock hunched forward to grab the gun and this time she punched the man in the face and then hit him with the elbow on the ribs. The man contorted with pain. She punched him in the jaw, applying all the strength she could manage with her already bruised hand. The man fell to the floor, unconscious.

"That was good." Sherlock complimented.

"Punch them to the side of the jaw, best way to make them go unconscious, I heard." She was still holding her hand, opening and closing it. It hurt.

Sherlock was already removing the gag from John, who started panting, closing his eyes. Dylan helped, untying the knots of the ropes that kept him on the chair. When they finished John fell to the floor, his legs unable to hold the weight of his body and Dylan proceeded to tie the man who would be unconscious for a while.

"Are you okay, John?" Sherlock asked, trying to stabilize his friend, sitting him back on the chair.

"Yes. I am… fine." John said, still shaken.

"I am going to call Greg." Dylan said, picking up her phone. She looked at John's bruises. The wound on his forehead was going to need re-stitching.

Sherlock got up and approached the man on the floor. He seemed upset.

Dylan finished explaining Lestrade what had happened, still holding John, and hang up.

"They're on their way." She said. She came closer to Sherlock, who was kneeling close to the man on the floor. "What is wrong?"

"He will never tell me." He said, sighing.

"John here needs medical assistance. You wouldn't want me to wait until he confirmed." She said, more a question, than an affirmation.

"He wouldn't shoot him. I am right."

"Then if you know you are right, there really would be no need to wait more, Sherlock." And she looked at him, a look of disapproval on her face.

John called. Dylan and Sherlock got up and turned around right in time to see him fall on the floor, face first.


	7. Chapter 7

The morning rays of sun came through the window, but they would be gone soon. Dylan was eating her toast and looking at John on the other side of the table. He was having trouble chewing, what with all his face looking like a mashed potato. He grinned as he sipped his tea. While Sherlock and Lestrade left with the fake Sebastian Wilkes to Scotland Yard, Dylan had gone to the hospital with John again. He was in a miserable state, had been beaten pretty had. At the hospital they had re-stitched his forehead and disinfected all other wounds. Luckily, apart from the pain he had to kill by taking regular doses of paracetamol, he would be fine. He seemed quite haggard, though. Sherlock had come home the night before to check on John and to rest for a while, though that turned out to be impossible. He had left early in the morning, as soon as inspector Lestrade had gotten to his office. Molly had called the night before as well, after John and Dylan left the hospital to 221B Baker Street. She had news for Sherlock on the poison result. It was positive for Clostridium Botulinum. With that prove Sherlock could present his suspicions to inspector Lestrade. The inspector was also going to interrogate the woman that had been seen with Mark Spencer again that morning.

John ate the last toast on the plate and ran a finger though the table, right where a big scratch was. Dylan spoke for the first time that day.

"Big scratch."

"Yeah, Sherlock and his experiments." John said, smiling at her.

"Oh, you don't know?"

"I don't know what?"

Dylan laughed.

"The scratch. How is there a scratch on the table." John shook his head and frowned. He had never given too much thought to it. Dylan explained. "He had a row once, with a Sikh warrior. That scratch was made with the warrior's sword. The guy almost decapitated him. From what he told me it was quite a fight."

John shook his head.

"Why doesn't he ever tell me these things?"

"I guess he does not want to make you worried." And she asked, pointing at his face. "How are you feeling?"

"Better. The pain killers help. I am just glad you got there in time yesterday."

He sighed. Somehow, John always ended up with guns pointed to his head.

The door downstairs opened and they heard hurried footsteps. Sherlock got in the apartment, his coat flapping behind him. Dylan got up as he walked in.

"So, anything new?"

"He refuses to say a word."

Sherlock had left to hear the interrogation of Sebastian Wilkes. Well, in this case, the man who was pretending to be him and who Dylan had punched in the face the night before.

"So, he did not confess."

"Nothing. He became mute. He doesn't want a lawyer and refuses to tell anything. They tried to make him speak with no success." And he picked up a few papers, read them and asked. "They are going to interrogate the woman now. Mark Spencer's mistress. You two want to come with me?"

Dylan nodded and looked at John. He nodded as well.

"Of course, there's no use in staying here."

Sherlock looked at him.

"Are you sure you are okay?"

"Yes, I am fine." John assured. He did seem a bit more cheered up. The wounds wold need time to heal.

"Let us go, then."

Dylan and John put on their coats and followed Sherlock in to the street. They took a taxi and got to Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade and Agent Donovan were talking outside Lestrade's office. They stopped talking when they saw Sherlock.

"We are going to interrogate her now."

"The man still refuses to say anything?"

"Yes. We really don't know what else to do. We have to make some more investigation, find out who he really is and try to trace that organization you told us about. For now all we can do is keep him in custody."

Sherlock nodded. The inspector was doing the best he could. The man would talk, sooner or later.

"Okay, let's go."

"Can we go as well?" It was John who asked. Inspector Lestrade took a good look at his face. Poor man; first ran over by a taxi, now beaten up.

"Yes, you both can stay as well." He authorised, pointing at Dylan too.

They entered inspector's Lestrade office. There stood Steve Mason, who had identified Mark's lover to be at the scene of the crime before he entered and killed him. He had been called to her first testimony and was now in the room again. His trial would also start soon.

The woman, Jean Simmons, was seated with her hands on her lap. The first story she had told had been quite plausible. She and Mark knew each other due to his relation with her husband. She had hated him for doing what he had done to them and when her husband committed suicide she had confronted him. Mark had said it was not his fault and volunteered to ease her life up by providing a small fee every month. She had refused but he had visited her often, making sure she was okay. They became close. She hated herself but couldn't resist falling in love with such a clever and extraordinary men. They got involved. Yes, she had been with him that day. They had met and kissed. No, she hadn't seen Mr. Steve Mason as she had left the room, so she could not provide any testimonial against him in court.

She had been very calm when she did the first testimonial. She was nervous now. The leg she had crossed was balancing and she kept her hands clasped together. She barely looked up as they walked in and she had been crying, make up all over her face.

Inspector Lestrade sat in front of her and Sherlock, John and Dylan stood by the door, close to Agent Donovan.

"Mrs. Jean Simmons, you were here yesterday evening to testify on the death of Mr. Mark Spencer. Mr. Steve Mason here had told us you were with the deceased just moments before he was killed with a knife. You confirmed that. Is there anything you would like to tell us?"

The woman did not say a word. She kept looking at her lap. Lestrade decided that he was going to look for the right questions so she could answer. She would not tell the story on her own.

"Mr. Mark was killed with a knife. But we found out, with our toxicological reports, that before Mr. Steve stabbed him, he had been poisoned."

Steve Mason frowned. Well, that was new for him. Lestrade proceeded.

"The poison that has been administered on Mr. Mark - presumably in his drink – was of a kind that would attack the victim slowly. It paralyses, from head to toe. So, in conclusion, Mr. Mark was poisoned but the poison was still taking effect when Mr. Steve Mason walked in to the room and stabbed him with the knife. The wound would still bleed; the cause of death seemed the stabbing. Now, there was only one person who could have poisoned Mr. Spencer's drink, and that was you. You were the only person who had been with him before Mr. Mason stabbed him. Just minutes before, the exact amount of time for the poison needed to take effect, but make Mr. Mason here think Mark was still alive. So, I am guessing you were lucky enough Mr. Mason saw you together and stabbed Mr. Spencer. No one ever thought about looking for another cause of death. Unfortunately for you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes there," He pointed out the consulting detective and the woman raised her eyes for the first time. "Thought otherwise and the lab ran a poison test. You are accused of murdering Mr. Mark Spencer. It would be better for you if you cooperate."

Inspector Lestrade gave her a tissue and Jean Simmons composed herself. She looked at the inspector and sighed, unsure where to begin. Dylan saw in her expression that she had decided. She was going to confess.

She began to speak, a tremulous voice, trying to fight back the tears.

"A couple years ago Mark Spencer and my husband – Stewart – decided to open a company. Never for a moment did I or my husband thought that Mark would turn out to be a selfish bastard." Her voice was filled with sorrow. "But Mark found a better job – or else, his father did. And, as if getting a high, better position, wasn't enough, that greedy… man decided to steal all from my husband. He used lawyers; he figured out things, he made him sign papers. Stewart trusted him, he had no reason not to. If you ask me, if anyone asked me, I would swear that my husband would be first in line to cheat Mark than the other way around. My man was a good man, but he was ambitious. And Mark was so rich. We would never have guessed. But it happened, he did steal from us and we were left with an empty house and a floor to sleep. They were tough times. Eventually my husband and I recovered what we had. Well, some of it. I never tried to know in which kind of business Stewart was. We had money and I didn't want to make any difficult questions. A few months later, after we were settled again, my husband started to act strange. And I didn't know why, he wouldn't tell me precisely and I wouldn't try to go further. I sensed he was… afraid. He was working at a company – small job. And I started to wonder once again where the money came from. His job could not provide him such benefits, you see. But I shut up all at once. Then, a few months later, after he began to act strange… He killed himself." She stopped, blowing her nose. She then clenched her hands in a fist. "I then decided to make some research of my own. And I figured out what had been troubling my husband. He was part of this secret society. That's how he was getting all the money. His minor position in that specific company allowed him to get important information. When he died he left papers and I found them out. I don't think anyone else knew about it. From what I understood he wanted out. He wanted to stop working for the society but that's not how things work, is it?" She asked for the room, not really expecting an answer, and proceeded. "These kinds of things, once you get in you can't get out. I guess he was too naïve or just too desperate. Desperate because of me, of the struggle I had to go through as well because he had trusted Mark Spencer." She paused again, breathing deeply. "He killed himself because he saw no way out. He was not okay with what he was doing. And I knew, deep down, it was all Mark's fault. If he hadn't stolen from us Stewart wouldn't have gotten in these kind of things and wouldn't have…" She shocked on the words, sobbing. Tears ran down her face and she cleaned them. "I wanted to kill him. I did. More than anything in my life. But I just didn't know how. I tried to contact the society my husband worked for. I knew they could provide something like that – to kill a man. They never contacted me and I knew I had no choice. So I got a job and one day I pretended to find Mark by accident. He said how sorry he was about Stewart's suicide and I pretended to accept it and to be inclined to be comforted by him. He fell for it. We began a relationship. Mark had always been an adulterous, so I knew there was a big chance my plan would succeed. It did. I had what I needed to kill him, I was close to him. But I didn't have my weapon. How to kill him without leaving trace? Then, a few months ago, someone from the society contacted me. I had forgotten about them by now. They were not an option anymore."

Lestrade interrupted.

"This society, do you know their name?"

"I do now." The woman said. "They call themselves Inferus." And she continued. "That's all I know about them, the name. A man came to talk to me. He said he had a way for me to kill Mark without bringing suspicions. An undetectable poison, not easy to get. I wasn't sure of what to do, if I should do it. But I still hated Mark and to have to pretend to love him and give it all up now didn't seem fair. Especially when Stewart had done so much for me. So I accepted it. I accepted the poison and I did it. At his engagement party. It was so easy."

She looked down at her hands again, silent tears falling down her face.

"What did they ask you in return?" Lestrade asked. "That society, Inferus, they provided you a way to kill a man. What did you had to do in return?"

"Nothing." She said. "The man that met me said I was doing him a favour." She focused, trying to remember the man's exact words. "He said it was the first move in a chess game. I had no idea what he meant; I was just relieved he wanted nothing in return."

Sherlock moved for the first time in the whole testimony. He paced closer to the woman, his hands in his pockets. Lestrade looked at him but did not stop him. Sherlock asked.

"What was the name of that man? Did he tell you?"

The woman looked at him and then at inspector Lestrade that nodded, allowing her to answer.

"Yes, he did. When he met me. I didn't get to see his face; it was at an old theatre. It was dark. It was probably an alias, I don't think he would have given me his real name, and it was a strange one anyway…"

"What was it?" Sherlock asked, impatient.

The woman looked at him.

"James." She answered. "James Moriarty."

All eyes in the room set on Sherlock. Despite his worry, he tried to supress a smirk, turning the microscope slide in his pocket, between his cold fingers, with the paper holding those three letters.

That bastard was a psychopath but, in truth, he was the only one able to stand on his level. The game was on again.

The end


End file.
